Frozen
by silmelinde
Summary: A badly injured archer is found after the Battle for the Lonely Mountain. Will the King help her survive and will the struggle change his heart, while the shadow of Dol Guldur grows again in the wake of a temporary victory?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own no dwarves, hobbits, rings of power or any other Tolkien's creations.

vocabulary:

fea - soul

aran nin - my king

elleth - female elf

* * *

 **Chapter: 1**

Numb. Bereft. The frozen earth was scarred. Its bleak plains and chasms were cropped with blood. Even the wind grew hollow to mourn the passage of the living into death. He let the last cries of their fea brush past untouched. To feel was to let in despair. Despair was for the weak, for those who could not live on. Tauriel's anguish reminded him how important it was to maintain control.

"Come back to your people once you're ready," he told her. Tauriel kept crying. Intuitively, he sensed she would once the pain allowed her to let go of the physical body. A detachment from the emotional bonds could take forever. Intruder on that mourning, he let her be. Her grief awakened memories that were sealed away and banished into a numb abyss. Those locks could not be tempered with. They had to hold.

Chilled outside. Frigid in heart. He succumbed to the urge to see his fallen troops. They deserved that much, a prayer from their King. Every being had to hold on to a purpose in life. Else, it was worthless. What did he hold sacred? Most of it grew corrupt or turned to ashes, except for the loyalty to his land.

As the footsteps of his son grew quieter, farther away, so did warmth. Whatever was left of the bond with his wife was poisoned by his own hand. The hate in his son's eyes, as Legolas announced his leave, was palpable. And so, he had no one to love, nothing to cherish but the connection to his kin and responsibility. He tried to do right by them, while the world infringed upon his borders and demanded payment, never leaving them in peace, just like this cursed day. Too many elven lives have been sacrificed in the Battle for the Lonely Mountain. Their fair blood sunk into earth.

Another one lay sprawled on her back. The fallen ruins sealed her to the waist like a tomb. One of the finest warriors. Her armour bore the markings of the elite archer squad. The silver hair, matted by blood of friends and enemies, fanned out and mixed with the snow. The grey eyes, far too expressive and bright for a pale face, were wide open like she was reaching out to the low skies with a plea. A bow lay barely out of the fingertip reach of her outstretched arm. It wasn't right for a warrior to die in battle without a weapon in hand. On an impulse, he leaned in to fulfill her last wish. The death was too recent. Her skin still held a bit of warmth.

Thranduil barely suppressed a gasp when the elleth's fingers convulsively locked around his wrist. Her eyelashes moved a fraction.

Alive! The thought was frantic. The numbness grew into shock. 'Save her!' an inner voice called out. The hard fought for rational was on the verge of slipping away. They were trapped. Alone, he could not move the rocks that held the broken body. The painful hold on his wrist was keeping the elleth in this life. He could not leave to find aid. It was too far. He had ventured away from the troops to find Tauriel and Legolas. Tauriel! She had to be nearby. Swallowing pride, he shouted for help, unaware just how distraught that plea was. Thranduil leaned in closely, examining his charge for the tiniest signs of life. Still, she drew breaths, though broken and shallow. This one could not be lost. The toll had been too high.

"Aran-nin!" An unsteady hand was placed on his shoulder to get his attention. Tauriel's huge eyes were filled with concern and fright. When the cry came, she had thought he fell victim to the enemy. Apprehension dawned on her as she saw the injured archer.

"Tauriel, fly to camp and find the healers. Bring someone who can move these rocks!" he implored. The elleth swallowed hard and remained in place. Her gaze was no longer on him, but ran past. Biting down the irritation that his order was disobeyed, Thranduil turned in that direction.

With the panic-filled thoughts settling down, he grew aware of the crunching noise and the company he least wished to encounter. The mongrel friends of Thorin Oakenshield. Tauriel reached out to them with an urgent plea. He would have thought them up to no good had he seen them approach. The dwarves took in the situation on their own and set to work. At least they were competent in moving rocks.

"Aye, lads! We need a better leverage," Balin called out. Noisily, like all their kind would do, they quickly loosened the fallen tower pieces, though the labour was heavy and Tauriel leapt up to help with finding the necessary planks. The dwarves and the Silvan King furiously ignored each other. Someone stepped in between them to address him.

"Uh...don't worry, Your, umm Elven, uh Highness. We'll free her."

Getting no answer, Bilbo shuffled away. Thranduil spared a long glance at the hobbit who stumbled around out of place, nervously pulling his hands in and out of the pockets, and looking like he wanted to help without a clue how to do it properly. Eventually, he tried to push the arduous mass. It trembled and shook, still unyielding to the efforts. The bottom stones had landed beside the elleth, taking on most of the weight, else she would have been completely crushed.

Even if they meant well, the dwarves' presence was unkind on his nerves that were already taut as a bowstring. They'd probably demand a compensation of some kind later. Thranduil turned away from the irritable sight to support his charge. With the kind words and touches he soothed her into loosening the grip, and gathered her hand into his. The breath of Mandos was a strong presence behind her will to live. "Have no fear. You will not be left in this desolate place," he called out to her. The Sindarin flowed like a prayer, reaching out to her soul. "You will heal. You will return home to the woods, but you must find the strength to endure."

With a deafening shout of encouragement, the dwarves dug into the weakest point, forcing the stone to collapse. They dodged the falling boulders. One of the chunks heavily smashed into Thranduil who couldn't avoid the blow, having leaned protectively over the injured elleth. His shoulder exploded in pain as the stone left a heavy dint in the armour. The so called rescuers cheered and set to removing the last of the bulk. Bilbo shuffled over, flicking the remaining pebbles off the broken body.

"Ah! UGH!" the hobbit swallowed back the content of his stomach and flinched away. "It uh looks broken. You may…you may want to bandage it or put a cold compress on that."

The Silvan King felt a twinge of respect since he hadn't dared to look yet. There was nothing pleasant to see.

"Poor, young lass!"

Thranduil gritted his teeth. Delicately, he lifted the prone body and set off at the safest, brisk pace to find the healers without a word. If she had to, Tauriel could thank them.

"You're quite welcome!" Bilbo's voice reached him.

The King did not respond. The dwarves weren't Silvan allies. He owed them nothing. The wind picked up, throwing handfuls of snow into his back. The frost that clung to his hair scraped against his cheekbones and neck. Above them, great eagle cries filled the air. The majestic birds circled the battlefield to destroy the remaining enemies, orcs and trolls that skulked from stone to stone to reach the tunnels and flee back to the foul places they've spawned from where they could rebuild again. If Beorn wanted to amuse himself in those tunnels, it was his prerogative. The King was risking no one else to hunt down the filth of Gundabad. The elves have done their part.

Their perfectly organised tents were already stretched out in patches of green and brown on the stark-white landscape. Small parties scouted the battlefield for the injured and fallen, keeping together and alert to the presence of the still near foes. Thranduil moved to the center of activity where the wounded were stationed, dismissing the warrior who tried to free him of the elleth he carried. Jostling the wounded archer by passing her from one to another might as well have killed her. The elves respectfully gave way to their King, many averting their eyes from the distressing sight. A tent flap was promptly moved aside by the guards to grant him entry. He stopped at the entrance to receive the instructions from one of the healers, as much as to shake off an unwanted wave of dizziness. The air was thick with the scents of herbs and blood. The muffled cries and curses weaved into the healers' exchanges and their quiet questioning of their patients. There were fewer wounded than anticipated. The clash had been too fierce. The blows exchanged by foes aimed either for death or victory. He'd know how many they've lost soon enough. Thranduil swallowed, wishing he could wash away the sickly taste with water, and focused on a healer who urgently detached herself from a task.

"Please, this way," she acknowledged the King with a minor bow and urgently guided him to a less crowded area where he was allowed to lay down the elleth at last. "We'll tend to her at once. These injuries are critical. I will need the help of at least one more," she declared after the briefest examination. The patient's regained hold on his wrist did not escape her notice, but she hadn't risked detaining the King.

"I suppose someone must remain with her while you collect your tools. I will stay," Thranduil issued. The healer nodded her thanks and quickly set off to prepare the instruments. She returned with a younger healer in tow who wasn't too skilled yet at disguising his feelings at the sight of grave injuries. The quick exchanges between them were troubled. Knowing they'd never ask even though he was now in the way, Thranduil tried to detach himself from the patient. The archer issued a distressed gasp and her fingers sunk into his wrist once more.

Thranduil lay a hand on her cheek and tried to look into the hooded eyes, unsure whether she could see him. "You are safe here," he called out, wishing he knew her name. "Safe. Trust these healers to help you. Can you feel their presence near? Let them guide you. They are friends who will lead you back to the light." The King made no other attempt to pull away, waiting patiently until she could let go. Among the wise, rumours passed that his voice held an enchanting quality. He fervently hoped that channelling this skill was enough to guide the elleth away from death. Hearing this, the healer placed her hand on the battered and trembling limb to build the connection. Reluctantly, the grip on Thranduil relaxed enough for a healer to take his place. Holding a breath, he delicately stepped away.

As he did so, Helenith appeared by his side. The Master in charge of the field healers had an uncanny ability to move softer than a scout. With an unshaken serenity he awaited to be acknowledged. "How many," Thranduil asked, heading outside where he wouldn't get in the way. A biting breath of the crisp air cleared his head. In its place tiredness set in, urging him to get away from the prying eyes where he could sit down. The healer followed the King to his personal tent, explaining the situation as they walked. His voice always flowed over the senses like a healing balm. It was low and soothing, suspiciously more so than usual. "Our kin is our priority. I care little for the plight of dwarves and men. Let them tend to their own injured," the King ground out. Helenith did not put up an argument, which was a cause for alarm. He always wanted to heal every bug in the forest, even the spiders if he could. "Do you not have a duty to fulfill elsewhere other than following me around?" Thranduil inquired suspiciously, noting how the healer matched his every step as he paced the tent in agitation.

"Aran-nin, I would like to fulfill my duty," Helenith replied mildly enough, yet his patience could move the rocks since he'd regard them serenely until they gave in. "If I may say so, you look stricken."

The King's pacing stopped abruptly. The weakness should never have surfaced. His pride demanded no less than concealing all signs of distress.

"What is it you require of me?" Thranduil decided it was faster find out directly than to argue. The strenuous negotiations, then the fearsome battle and loss were bound to be unkind on anyone. Emotionally, he was drained. Thranduil touched his face to check whether the strain reflected in his features. There was no horribly twisted, corrupted flesh, no memories of the past war. The palm encountered a smooth skin, except for the minor cuts that stung.

"This potion contains the healing herbs that have rejuvenating qualities. They're quite soothing," the healer poured a rose liquid into a glass from a decanter, which he brought from the healing tent with them. The offer was clearly to drink it.

Thranduil suspiciously sniffed the concoction. It did not smell that bad. The taste was slightly bitter. It caused a curious sensation of floating, but he did feel the tension subside and grow distant. The healer, who took the cup from him and stepped away to set it down, was growing out of focus.

"Have you sustained any injuries? It might be prudent to address them as I'm already here."

Helenith's voice was almost hypnotising. Thranduil wanted to tell him no and to send the meddling healer away, but the words weren't forming. "My King?" Helenith's usually composed features were creased with concern as he swiftly closed the distance between them. Just what was in that treacherous concoction? There was a restraining pressure in his chest and then something snapped, making him draw a free, convulsive breath. Thranduil swayed. The reality drifted out of focus. As the King collapsed, Helenith caught him.


	2. Chapter 2

vocabulary:

argon - high commander, general

ion nin - my son

* * *

 **Chapter: 2**

He lay on his back, head comfortably resting on a pillow and a blanket protectively wrapped around his body as a misty ceiling of the royal tent slowly drifted into focus. Along with the sluggishly recovering senses came the sounds of the stirring camp, and a keen awareness of all the cuts and bruises pounding under the skin. Casting this minor pain into the recess of his mind, Thranduil allowed the memories to surface - his horror at the devastation in the wake of the battle, a heartbroken Tauriel and equally so his son.

 _Ion-nin if only I could have stopped you._ Yet, Thranduil could not have denied his son the freedom to act as he saw fit. Legolas had been raised to become strong and independent. A true prince could not be handheld by his parents. This was the price the father paid by willingly putting the distance between them, a lost connection that grew with the passage of time. The king didn't know how to approach the subject of the unrequited love that was hurting his son, how to make it easier, nor would Legolas allow him to. The prince would deal with the pain on his own like it was no more than a flesh wound. Thranduil succumbed to the inevitability of his leave and fervently hoped that Legolas would find the healing he needed in the wild that he couldn't provide at home. The rangers would keep his son out of worse trouble than he would find on his own, so the father prayed. One couldn't be trusted to wander alone with a wounded heart.

Aimless regrets. Thranduil shuddered at the intensity of the darkness they've invoked and tried to rise. Those fears would not pull him under. A blanket slid off his chest, revealing fresh bandages. The healer had laid him on a cot after painstakingly treating every injury. A heat rushed to his cheeks at discovering that he was clad in nothing except the leggings. It was most disturbing that someone had undressed him without his awareness.

A carmine robe hung over a chair's arm. Still light-headed, Thranduil reached for it unsteadily and slug it over his shoulders. His neck and right shoulder were stiff, flaring up in pain from any careless movements and the small turns of his head. The rest of the clothes along with the armour and weaponry were missing. Wrapping a loose garment around his body, Thranduil pulled aside the tent flap where the guards kept an impassive watch until he spoke to them. "Who entered my tent, from the last evening to present?"

The inquiry prompted the warriors to exchange a startled look, silently asking each other whether they've missed some invisible burglar who had snuck in uninvited. "Amriel came last evening to take the weapons and armour for repair," one answered. "Master Helenith came twice at night and in the morning. There was no one else."

"I want my armour returned immediately," the king commanded, leaving them to fulfill the order. He was not planning on casually strolling around a soaked in blood battlefield in a robe, while the land was infested by the hostile orcs and dwarves. Those weren't against spontaneously shoving a dagger or three into his back.

A sensation in his mouth was awful like he had chewed up an orc boot. Thranduil poured a glass-full of wine. A savoured, rich flavour slowly replaced the foul taste. He was eager to find Helenith and ask what he had been poisoned with, though he refrained from sending for the healer to avoid distracting him from caring for the wounded.

"Enter," he called out to a minor commotion outside.

Amriel shuffled in, desperately fighting off an entangling flap and bowing even lower under the weight of the weapons and armour. His work was satisfactory, albeit the elf had an unfortunate inclination for grovelling. "Good afternoon," he voiced, presenting the items to their owner with a flourish. "You look exceptionally well, your Highness."

Thranduil sincerely doubted he looked well since his visage had frightened the master healer last night. He noted that the armour still had a dint. The piece would have to be replaced rather than polished off. In a flurry of hustle and bustle, Amriel hit his shin against the nearest solid object and then bowed again.

"Your armour, Aran-nin. May I have the honour of assisting you?" he asked, openly staring at the bandages visible at the neckline.

"You expect me to wear the breastplate over a bare skin?" the king's voice was deceptively soft, while he fixed the servant with a stare that could have burned down a small forest. "Kindly, find my clothes."

Amriel shot out of the tent and ran like there was a pack of Balrogs hot on his heels, nearly colliding with a high commander at the entrance who was saved by the honed warrior instincts that got him out of the way. In Amriel's place a guard cautiously appeared to disturb the King.

"Argon Daugion waits outside. He requests audience."

Evidently, it was too grand a luxury to get dressed before some emergency brought elves to the royal tent from all over the camp. It had to be important. Otherwise, the commander would have waited for the King to find him at his convenience.

"I will see him," Thranduil decreed. Barefoot and scantly dressed, he mustered the dignity to stand cool and collected as the argon came in.

The battle and a sleepless week have left a weary imprint. Daugion looked worn. But, his senses were ever sharp and he remained alert to every word. He carried a bundle, which the warrior unwrapped to reveal a concealed weapon before presenting it to the King. The magnificent blade may have been marred by a recent battle, however, its perfection shone through the grime and blood as the king pulled it from the sheath half-way.

"Is this not the sword confiscated from the company of Thorin Oakenshield when they've crossed our border," Thranduil inquired smoothly, recognising the weapon. He had studied its design while the dwarves were locked away in the dungeons. The king sheathed the blade and smoothly glided over to the table where he poured a generous amount of wine into a goblet. Daugion looked like he needed a drink. The commander accepted it gratefully.

"The Orcisist found its way back into the hands of the dwarves," the argon ventured. "We've recovered the blade from the Azog's body," he spat out the orc's name with contempt. "The word spreads, the King of Erebor has slain the enemy of his bloodline."

"And left such a prize behind?"

"The King has paid for the victory with his life, so have his cousins."

"How tragic."

The words came cold. Regardless of their conflict, he never wished for a termination of a royal line. The news were not pleasant, though they left him indifferent.

"The dwarves have protested once we've reclaimed the blade's possession," Daugion drained the wine and firmly set the goblet on the table. The diplomacy was not his forte. He hadn't appreciated having to deal with a spontaneously raised conflict when a bunch of quarrelsome dwarves surrounded him.

"Let them protest. They cannot deny our craftsmanship." A slight smirk curved his lips as Thranduil imagined how his commander told the dwarves a blunt, 'no.' They've deserved it, having been nowhere reasonable in negotiations.

The argon slightly inclined his head, showing that he understood an elusive order to carry on with that policy.

"Has Tauriel remained in our camp?" The king suspected she'd venture to Erebor to remain by her beloved's side until the funeral rights have been commenced. As much as he wanted to lead his army away from the accursed place, at least a week had to pass before they'd be ready. By then, Tauriel might be prepared to travel with them.

"I will find out her whereabouts," Daugion assured.

"She is free to return."

A brief surprise mixed with relief flickered over Daugion's face. Just as quickly the argon regained his composure. Exile was a heavy punishment few were subjected to. Tauriel was a fine elleth. It was a relief to hear that she was no longer banished.

"We'll discuss the rest later," Thranduil decreed.

Recognising dismissal, Daugion left. His space was instantly filled up by Amriel. Thranduil granted him 'the privilege to be the happiest elf alive' as the elf zealously stated, fussing over the buckles and ties while vigorously blowing an invisible specks of dust off the royal attire. Thranduil dodged those busily flickering hands as Amriel tried to polish the circlet with his sleeve and purposefully strode outside. Helenith had much to explain.

As becoming of the most accomplished healer, Helenith was dealing with the worst aftermath of the battle. The younger colleagues called on his advice, placing him in the center of activity as he dealt with the critical injuries. Thranduil found him at the bedside of the elleth he brought to camp. Whether she was saved still remained unknown. A heavy doubt was etched into the healer's brow as he examined the cleaned up and bandaged wounds, making adjustments. Thranduil felt uncomfortable that his well being had distracted the healer twice from those who suffered the worst, before strictly reminding himself that it had been by Helenith's own doing.

The healer covered his patient with a lightest blanket and straightened. As much as he hadn't expected to find the king waiting, he ran an accessing gaze over Thranduil instinctively. A more fearful person would have been disconcerted by his expression that hardly differed from the troubled one previously directed at the archer.

"You must rest your arm," he advised calmly, faced with a dangerous glint that appeared in the king's eyes. "The shoulder bone is badly bruised. Had the pressure been any greater, it could have been broken."

"Your competence in this manner is highly valued," Thranduil's tone matched the quiet words spoken by Helenith, biting down the displeasure. Being near the wounded curbed ones temper. "Now, please indulge my curiosity, what was in that potion?" Even though Helenith may have acted in his best interest, drugging him unconscious without a permission was worthy of a trip to the dungeons. The offender didn't look repentant. If anything he seemed relived that the king was well enough to question him.

"You haven't been misled. The potion was meant to relieve the tension. Its effect had been unexpected and most disturbing."

"Are you saying, I've lost consciousness on my own?"

The remark was barely distinguishable, so it wouldn't accidentally be overheard by the other healers busily moving around them. Never, should he have shown such a weakness. At least Amriel hadn't witnessed the embarrassing incident. Else, his misguided concern would have turned the camp upside down, informing everyone, dwarves included, with an inflated rumour that the king was in mortal peril because he fainted.

"Fatigue and stress, much has contributed to the collapse," Helenith sensed that a forward confirmation or denial weren't the right responses. "You've used your voice to sooth one of the wounded. This too is a form of healing that calls the fea away from Mandos. You must have sensed the Halls near. It is similar to passing your own life to another."

"I have," the king confirmed. His attention shifted to the elleth. Helenith unwillingly made a movement to prevent him from approaching her bedside, but forced himself out of the way.

"You could have been pulled into the Halls in her stead," he voiced anxiously. The night aged him a hundred years. There may have been no signs that the king's bright fea could have been overwhelmed, but the strength it took to fight off the effect was too draining. He could have been unconscious for days.

"It is not my time," Thranduil denied. Neither was it for the elleth he looked at.

Chilling. That's what it was when one of the elves lay with their eyes closed. They did so only when their injuries were grave. "How is she?"

"It may take days before she regains awareness."

"That's not what troubles you," the king caught on an elusive reply. As wise as Helenith was, it was difficult to admit that sometimes all his knowledge was powerless.

"Her bones weren't just broken, they've been crushed," he explained quietly. "Even our innate abilities that help us recover from the physical injuries have limits. It's unlikely she'll walk again."

Perhaps, it would have been kinder to let her die and be reborn healthy in Valinor than to let her suffer. What would an immobilising wound do to a warrior? Could she adapt or slowly fade, unable to follow her calling any longer?

'But, you know everything about the wounds that cannot be healed,' a malicious voice hissed from the part of him that was shrouded in shadows and flame. 'How long will you torture this one before she too succumbs to the inevitable, just like that other?' _Be gone_ , Thranduil pushed those thoughts away haughtily like they were an insignificant slime. The destructive self-doubt was not going to rob the elleth of a chance to live.

Could those unconscious have their feelings show without their awareness? There was a mystical beauty in a still face. A detachment lay in her features, the kind of an inward focus when an archer aimed for a challenging target, determined to hit the mark. The wavering glow surrounding her was nearly nonexistent and the pale skin was like snow. Frozen in a dream, that's what she was.

Thranduil took her hand, searching for a connection they've shared when he found her. It was there like a tiny, shy light. The slender fingers may have looked delicate, but that was a deception, for the hands of an archer were fast and strong, and so was she.

"Where the body fails, a strong spirit endures," Thranduil voiced his thoughts. "I have seen it in her mind. She does not want to die. Do everything you can to help her."

Helenith murmured his consent, not that this sentiment was necessary. He always did. "Aran-nin, may I take your hand?" he requested once the king gently returned the elleth's hand to the covers, intending to leave.

Puzzled, the king stretched out his arm towards him, which the healer took. For a moment, Thranduil saw every fear of the past night etched into the healer's features.

"Last night, your hands have grown cold," he said softly.

"Not anymore, but your presence when that happened is appreciated," Thranduil uttered, withdrawing. He wanted to conceal the indifference and detachment that took over his actions in peril. Maybe, he already felt dead. There were things worse than Mandos, such as the further negotiation with the dwarves. Thorin's death had not freed them of the debt.


End file.
